


in the churchyard

by divineglass



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Post Episode: s07e06 The Snowmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divineglass/pseuds/divineglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The TARDIS materializes in a church yard as the Doctor scrambles around the console, his hands grasping onto the metal surface for dear life as his ship shakes around him. As she settles, he stands up straight, smoothing down the heavy waistcoat and straightening his bow tie. “Now then, dear,” he begins, looking up at the monitor at Clara’s Victorian countenance. “Have you brought me to her this time?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the churchyard

**Author's Note:**

> this has been tumbling around in my head ever since the christmas special. hope you enjoy!

The universe had always watched him run, but it was different this time. He knew it was different, knew that she was something he had never encountered before, and he liked it. He liked it far too much. The headstrong Doctor, running off on a whimsical journey no one could have ever predicted. The circumstances? Mad, at best. Impossible, at worst. Who was Clara Oswin Oswald? What had the universe given him this time?  
  
\--  
  
The TARDIS materializes in a church yard as the Doctor scrambles around the console, his hands grasping onto the metal surface for dear life as his ship shakes around him. As she settles, he stands up straight, smoothing down the heavy waistcoat and straightening his bow tie. “Now then, dear,” he begins, looking up at the monitor at Clara’s Victorian countenance. “Have you brought me to her this time?” Running along the bottom of the monitor is a date: 20 April 2013. “Maybe...”  
  
Before the church yard had been a nasty encounter with the Atraxi (who were apparently still upset about being scolded on a rooftop) and a rather thrilling visit with Ridell and Neffy, who were traveling the Congo with three children. (“Well, Doctor, you see, when a man loves a woman like Neffy--” “No, no, I don’t want to hear it!” “I never took you for the bashful type, Doctor.” _“Neffy!”_ ) Their trip through the Congo led them to discover a colony of superintelligent multiforms living in the river, preying on those who traveled its waters. (“I’m certain this was the horror that Joseph Conrad described,” the Doctor commented as he sent the multiforms back to space. “Though the book itself, that’s another story altogether.” A groan from his companions caused him to follow up with, “No pun intended!”)  
  
In all, the Doctor had a few busy months following his encounter with Clara Oswin Oswald.  
  
He touches the console briefly, his fingers running over the nook reserved for Amy’s--now his--glasses with a slight twinge in his chest that had nothing (or everything)  to do with having two hearts. With a sad smile, he pats his pocket to make sure his sonic screwdriver is firmly in place, and climbs the stairs out of the TARDIS.  
  
He peeks his head out of the door, looking both ways, before he walks into the overgrown graveyard, the grasses crunching beneath his feet. The bright sunlight causes him to squint, and he places his hands on his hips, looking around the graveyard as best as he can. It’s a warm day for April; he rolls up his sleeves a bit as he steps gingerly over broken headstones until he finds the one he is looking for. _Clara Oswin Oswald. Remember me, for we shall meet again._ “Who are you?” he says under his breath, sticking his jaw out almost defiantly as he runs a hand over the dirty headstone.  
  
“Oy! What are you doing?” He jumps and turns about, limbs flailing before coming to rest behind his back, one hand clasping the other wrist, and he forms an innocent smile before it falls. _Well done, old girl,_ he thinks of his TARDIS, as the petite form of Clara Oswin Oswald walks towards him in the cemetery, her arms crossed over her chest.  
  
“You know, checking out the stone work. Isn’t it fanta--no, no, that’s not the word I’m looking for,” he says, his mind flashing back to a night in London with a stubborn blonde. That word was long gone. “Nice! Let’s go with that, it’s nice. Though nice is something you usually say about a grandmother you’re not very fond of who smells like mothballs and yesterday’s beans and toast...” He cringes and looks down. “I’m just looking for a friend’s grave.”  
  
She stops next to him, almost a foot shorter, and looks up at him, her head tilted and eyes squinting in the sun. “A friend? All these graves are over a hundred years old, mate,” she replies, shaking her head at him.  
  
“She’s a very old friend,” he counters, and turns the conversation around. “What are _you_ doing here?”

"Shortcut to the market. I need milk--"

“For souffles?” he guesses, excitement stirring in his stomach and chest, his hearts beating a bit faster.  
  
Her mouth is still open but her speech falters, and she puts a hand over her eyebrows to shield her eyes from the sun. “What did you say her name was?” she says, her tone insistent.  
  
“I didn’t.” A beat. “Clara.”  
  
“But that’s my name.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“How do you know? I’ve never seen you before in my life.” She begins to back away from him, and he frowns; this isn’t what he was intending.  
  
He takes a step towards her, his hands held up in surrender. “Lucky guess,” he supplies, though his questioning tone causes her to take a few more steps backwards, unknowingly towards the blue box that had carried him here.  
  
“Stay away from me,” she warns, and ends up backed against the TARDIS, and she looks around at it, her eyes widening. He thinks he sees recognition in her eyes, and he fights off the smile that tugs on the corners of his mouth before he steps back.  
  
“Alright,” he tells her. “I’ll leave you alone. But if you would feel safer, just step inside that police box and I’ll make my way out of here before the police can get me.”  
  
Clara glares at him before she casts a glance over her shoulder to find the door handle. With a push, she backs into it and slams the door behind her.  
  
 _Sorry, dear,_ he thinks, before the doors open again and Clara runs around the box. “I’ve seen this before,” he hears her say, catches the awe in her voice, and she runs back into the box. And back out. “ _No,_ ” she cries, opening the door again to peek in. And shutting it. She turns around, pressing her back flat against the door, and closes her eyes briefly, before one slides open to peek at him.  
  
He shrugs and places his hands in his pockets, keeping them to himself. “Smaller on the outside?” he supplies, merely standing there, waiting.  
  
She nods. _“How?”_  
  
“It’s called the TARDIS. It can travel anywhere in time and space. It’s a ship. Best ship in the universe!” He walks around to the side of it, making sure to stay a safe distance from Clara. “And it’s mine.”  
  
At this, she stands up straight, indignant. “ _You_ told me to go in there!”  
  
“Well, I’d like you to come away with me.”  
  
Clara looks down, and he wonders what she is thinking. It’s been long--too long--since anyone had properly traveled with him, and this time--well, this time he wasn’t going to let any ice governess pull Clara from the clouds or let her become a Dalek.  
  
“How do you know who I am?” she asks; it almost sounds like she is pleading with him.  
  
“I’m not sure,” he says honestly.  
  
“How come I feel like I’ve seen this before? Like I’ve seen _you_ before? This isn’t possible. I must be mental.” Clara’s words come rapidly, her voice sounding more frenzied as she spoke.  
  
“That’s what I’d like to find out. So, will you?”  
  
“Will I _what?_ ”  
  
“Come away with me.”  
  
In response, all she does is look around to the doors of the TARDIS--he even thinks she reads the sign--and pulls the door open, disappearing inside. ( _She_ did _read the sign_ , he thinks.)  
  
He stands there for a moment, clasping his hands together and twiddling his thumbs. He knows he must be delicate, but he has no idea how she is even _possi--_  
  
“Are you coming, or not? I don't know how this thing works!”  
  
“Right! Sorry!” He takes off with a funny skip-hop, and the TARDIS door creaks shut behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, especially the lines about the TARDIS--just thrown in there to see if it would jog Clara's memory. Thanks for reading!!


End file.
